Before It Was Cool
by Tabine
Summary: The life and times of a reclusive caffeine-addicted hipster of a writer and his tattoo artist boyfriend. Rated for language, sexual themes, and Duncan.


Happy Dunno Day, friends. At least, that's what it is on tumblr, and I've been looking for an excuse to write these two anyway. Enjoy.

* * *

**In Which Noah Has a Deadline and Duncan is an Unwanted Distraction**

* * *

"You have _got_ to me kidding me." Noah looked up from the manuscript he was currently editing to the taller man standing before him. "I thought we agreed — you don't bother me while I'm working, and I _consider_ letting you get laid tonight." He leaned back and spun his chair around, folding his arms as he did so. "This had better be important."

Duncan shrugged. "You have a deadline coming up, and I thought you needed a break," he said. Then he smirked. "I had a different idea when I first came up here, but I'm okay with compromising if _you're_ down with it."

Noah frowned, spinning his pen idly in his hands. "Just for that, you're sleeping in the living room for the next month. What do you want?"

"You don't mean that."

"Try me." Tucking the pen behind his ear, Noah's frowned deepened, and he turned back to the manuscript on the desk. "If you're done bothering me, I suggest you leave, now."

Feigning a sigh of resignation, Duncan took a seat on the edge of the desk. "Look, man, you're stressed about that deadline. I get that — that's why I came up here."

Noah didn't look at him, and instead continued perusing the paper before him. "I'm touched. Go away."

"Make me." Duncan leaned forward, placing one hand under Noah's chin and forcing the other man to look at him. "Come on — just give me an hour."

With a huff, Noah pushed himself away from the desk, glaring at Duncan as he did so. "_Fine_ — one hour." He narrowed his eyes. "Any longer than that, and you're out in the living room for the rest of the _year_."

"I'll take it." Duncan took Noah's wrist and pulled him out of the room and down the stairs, only pausing long enough to allow Noah to put on his shoes and jacket before dragging him out the door and across the street.

Noah was clearly not impressed, raising an eyebrow in subtle confusion as he waited for Duncan to unlock the shop and then follow him through the front door of the tattoo parlor. "Wow. Never been here before."

Duncan made his way behind the counter at the front of the shop and rummaged around for something in one of the drawers. "Not as a customer, you haven't."

"As a customer?" Noah folded his arms across his chest tightly. "Excuse me?"

With a triumphant grin, Duncan straightened up, waving a sheet of paper as he did so. "You heard right, man. Remember this?"

Noah's eyes widened in recognition. "You still have that?"

"Of course." Duncan smirked — catching Noah off-guard was one of his favorite past times, even if it didn't happen with as much frequency as he would have liked. "You didn't think I'd throw it out, did you?"

"I was _drunk_ when I drew that, you impulsive horndog." Still, he couldn't help but smile, though it didn't last long. Approximately zero-point-seven-three-eight seconds, to be exact. "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking, are you?"

Duncan shrugged. "You said you wanted one, and I thought your design was pretty cool. Plus, it would've been on the house; I'd be a dick if I made my boyfriend pay for his own tattoo when I'm the one inking him." Then he smirked. "Besides — tattoos are always better when they're last-minute decisions. True story."

"Remember the part where I said I was _drunk_?" Noah hadn't moved, and seemed to grow increasingly displeased with every passing moment.

"Alcohol just makes it easier to tell the truth," Duncan replied, "and to make those aforementioned decisions." He stepped out from behind the counter and began walking toward the back of the shop, where the individual rooms for piercing and tattooing appointments were held. "Speaking of, I didn't know you liked my chest so much."

Noah followed him with a noncommittal shrug of his own. "What can I say? I'm a fan of rippling pectorals."

Duncan held open the door to one of the smaller rooms. "Enough to get yourself inked by the dude who owns them, apparently. What would your parents think?"

"I'm a queer second-generation Indian dude with a doctorate in both computer sciences and medieval literature who gave up any hope at a 'real' career or medical school to be a writer who can barely cover his rent on time and live with white his tattoo artist boyfriend," came the matter-of-fact reply as Noah took a seat on the cushioned chair meant for clients, "but they still call me every week and ask how you're doing, and the next time we're going to come visit." He smiled. "I really don't think a tattoo is going to change that."

"Good call." Duncan sat down in his own chair and looked at the supplies in front of him to make certain everything he needed was in order before putting on a fresh pair of disposable gloves. "So where do you want it?"

Shrugging noncommittally, Noah leaned back in the chair. "I can't believe you have everything set up — you even put it on carbon paper?"

"You didn't answer my question."

Noah frowned. "And you didn't answer mine." He sighed and presented Duncan his right forearm. "Right here."

With a self-satisfied smirk, Duncan opened the packaging of a fresh alcohol wipe. "I've had everything ready for a while — cleaned up your design, had the sketch ready to make the template, all that fun stuff.I was just waiting for the right day to get the _specifics_ together. Mostly the blueprint." He glanced down at the design to make sure it was straight before pressing it down firmly against Noah's skin and pulling it away when the outline had properly transferred. "What is it, anyway?"

"_Gnyanam_. It's Sanskrit for 'knowledge'. I figured that my first tattoo should be one that suited me." Rolling his shoulders back, Noah looked over at Duncan somewhat apprehensively as the other man tested out the needles of the tattoo gun to make sure they worked properly. "This isn't going to hurt too much, is it?"

"Only if you think about it too much, but I promise to kiss it to make it all better if the pain becomes too much." Duncan raised an eyebrow and shifted closer, one foot on the pedal of the motor and tattoo gun held aloft. "Ready?"

"Fine." Noah closed his eyes, too a deep breath. "Ready."

* * *

"It doesn't look too bad at all," Noah said as Duncan wrapped his arm. "Color me impressed."

The artist smirked. "You doubt my abilities?"

"Not really," the smaller man replied. "At least, not when it came to your tattooing skills." Suddenly Noah stood, glancing up at the clock on the wall as he did so. "Your sense of time, however, is another thing entirely."

Duncan's eyes widened in confusion as he followed Noah's gaze. "What do you mean?"

Quickly, Noah pressed his lips against Duncan's cheek before stepping away. "You suck at time management, dude." He smirked. "You give _Indian standard time_ a bad name, and that's saying something. At least the couch is comfortable."

"You have _got_ to be kidding me, man." Duncan blinked. "You were serious about that? I thought you were messing with me."

Noah crossed his arms over his chest. "Dude. You bothered me while I was in the middle of editing, _and_ you've had me sitting here for well over two hours." HIs smirk disappeared, only to be replaced with a decidedly unamused frown. "I had my entire strategy for my next deadline planned out, and I was already running behind — you managed to set me back even more, and even though I appreciate you covering my tattoo, I am _not_ thankful enough to let you back into _my_ bedroom. I'm the one who pays rent, after all." He raised an eyebrow before turning away and left the room. "Later, man. I'll leave some extra blankets out if you need them."

"Wait a sec —"

"Hope your arm doesn't get too tired. Thanks again for the tattoo, dude."

Duncan could only stand there and watch Noah's retreating form until the smaller man had turned the corner and left the tattoo parlor; it wasn't until after he heard the front door open and then close a few moments later that he even _thought_ about responding. "Yeah, well, at least _I_ still don't look like a twink!"

It may have been a good response, albeit a rather delayed one, but in the end Noah was a man of his word — he'd eventually relented and allowed Duncan back into the bedroom, but then again that was only _after_ four months of Duncan pleading and whining, and Noah extracting a promise that Duncan would do any other tattoos for free.


End file.
